I Am No Rock
by Remetan
Summary: Without her, he knows, he is lost. A story inspired by James Taylor's Something In the Way She Moves, but not a song fic. Rated T to be safe.


**Disclaimer:** The characters, situations, and anything else you recognize are the property of JK Rowling and her publishers, and I am in no way making any money off of this. I just do it for fun.

The song this story is inspired by is the property of James Taylor and affiliates, and I only hope I have done its beauty justice.

* * *

"But you can't simply forget that he's got people everywhere. I mean, there are bound to be spies listening in on any conversation anyone is having anywhere except here! And it's getting worse!" Bill's voice was quiet for all it was vehement.

"Exactly!" agreed Moody.

"Yes, we are all well aware that we are being watched. But everyone is being watched right now. It's not merely us, nor is it only the DeathEaters doing the watching. The Ministry has its own set of spies now, as I am sure the Aurors in our midst tonight will tell you." Minerva was trying to reason with them. It never worked, not this late, and not after this long of a day. Hell, especially not after this long of a week.

"Listen, we've got to make our move now! We know where several of them are hiding, and we know the identities of most of them who hide in plain sight! If we are going to do anything, it's all about amassing forces, and moving in on the event this weekend at the Malfoy's. At the same time, we'll send people out to the hideouts we know about. We'll attack them in full! They won't know what hit 'em!" Usually I respected Ron's tactical advice, but this seemed a bit over the top. He hadn't been the same since Ginny and his mum were attacked and almost both killed while out shopping. Ron was supposed to go with them, but begged out on account of a date with Lav. Nobody had seen anything, and Molly had spent the better part of a month in St. Mungo's. Ginny wasn't quite so lucky. She now has a permanent limp, and has to walk with a cane. Ron's been a bit over-excited about revenge lately, though he won't admit it.

The fallout from his last statement was heard clearly around the room, as those who agreed spoke up and those who disagreed tried to be heard over the din. Before I knew it, I was looking down a table filled with people standing up and yelling at each other, angry faces as far as I could see. At this point, I wasn't sure if I should sit down and rub my temples in an attempt to ward of the impending head-ache, or simply scream at the top of my lungs to try to quiet at least the chaotic noise that was in the room, though I could do nothing about that which was in my head.

I finally decided on the first option, and collapsed into the chair behind me, elbows on table, forehead on fingertips, eyes shut tight and thumbs pressing into my temples and rubbing in tight circles. It could go like this for hours. Especially after several rapid Death Eater attacks. Everyone had advice, everyone had counsel, and I was supposed to make sense of it all and give the final orders. Christ, I'm a nineteen year old kid. How in all that's holy am I supposed to know what to do? But I had been chosen to lead this fight before I was born, and I had no right to refuse my duty to all those who were alive, my duty to all those who had already died. I only hoped I could make their deaths less meaningless, make the lives of the living better.

It was while I was sitting there, ignoring the shouting, ignoring that people were calling my name, trying to get me to take sides, ignoring that I needed to make a decision and let all these exhausted people go home, that I felt the air shift. I lifted my head and looked toward the door. She was closing it quietly, book under arm and reading glasses not quite keeping frizzy hair from falling into her face. The sound of the door latching was inaudible over the arguing in the room, and she made her way quickly to an armchair by the fire, hair streaming in a single mass behind her and head down, watching her feet's rapid progress across the worn wooden floor. She slumped into her own chair, took a deep breath, rolled her neck a little and then looked my way.

When her eyes met mine, the noise in the room stopped attacking my ears. But it was the noise in my head settling that got my attention. Her lips lifted in a small sardonic grin, and she rolled her eyes and shrugged her shoulders a bit, in reference to all the arguing, no doubt.

I lifted one corner of my lips at her and gave a quick nod. Then she smiled a real smile, opened her book and went into her private world.

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes quickly and then turned back to the table.

"Alright, here's what we're gonna do…" As I described my plan aloud, internally I thanked my lucky stars that the powers that be had decided she and I would be friends.

* * *

The sun was warm on my face, its light a fire red against my closed eyelids. Actually, the day would've been unbearably hot if not for the breeze coming up off the stream. I'd been lying in the grass on this hill since early morning, and I was refusing to return to Headquarters until I stopped enjoying myself. Things were mostly at a standstill anyway, there hadn't been any attacks from either side for a while, and as far as anyone knew, there hadn't been any movement behind the scenes, either. So, here I was.

How she finds me I'll never know, but she has an uncanny ability to know not only where I am, but exactly when I need her to show up. I hear her quick footsteps approach, sure and confident; she one of those people who never does anything without purpose. Then she settles down next to me, sitting next to my head. She says nothing, she doesn't need to.

I picture her then, as I've seen her a hundred times before. Holding a dandelion she's just plucked from somewhere, twirling it between her fingers, letting the soft yellow petals tickle her hand. Her legs crossed Indian style, her head back and her eyes closed. And I see her, too, with a soft smile playing over her lips as the warm sun and cool breeze alternately warm and cool her face.

After several minutes, I open my eyes, pulling one hand out from behind my head to shield my eyes, and look her way. But she hasn't got her head tipped back and her eyes closed; instead she's looking at me. When our eyes meet, she smiles at me and tickles the end of my nose with the dandelion, then giggles while I scrunch up my face and rub at the spot she's just caused to itch.

"Lunch?" she asks, and I nod in response. But rather than get up, I just roll to my side as she jumps up, seeming to spring without leverage from the ground, and goes running off towards the café we like. Her hair is in a braid this time, and it bounces around as she runs. She goes about a hundred yards, then turns around and laughs again, this time outright. Then she takes a couple of steps toward me, stops and runs the dandelion across her lips.

A few seconds pass and then she throws her arms out to her sides and yells, "Are you coming, or what?"

"Yeah, coming!" I respond, and lift myself off the ground, feeling lighter than I've felt in weeks. I take a deep breath in through my nose, gathering the smell of this moment to save with all the other sense experiences that will make up this memory, then I start walking in her direction.

* * *

I'm not really sure how long I've been here. Long enough for the mud and the blood to dry on my clothing and make it difficult to move about, but who's moving? I grope around me in the dark, my hand finds dust and cobwebs and something soft and squishy and I don't really care at this point what it is. Finally I make contact with the smooth, round, cool surface of the bottle, and bring it to my lips again. It's empty, so I chuck it to my left and hear it crash against what I assume are wooden crates. They were last time I was up here in the light.

I reach into my robes and pull out the second bottle I put there for just this occasion, open it and help its cap to join its predecessor with the wooden crates. Then I bring the bottle to my lips and swallow, gulp after gulp. Somehow, though, the pain in my throat from the alcohol isn't enough to dull the pain in my heart, the pain in my soul.

I don't know if this skirmish was actually worse than the rest, or if it is all just building up inside me and eating me from the inside out. I don't know how much longer I can do this. I am tired of killing. I am tired of waiting to be killed. I am seriously considering finishing this bottle and then the third one I brought with me and just laying down here and never waking up. Someone else can do my job, can't they? Surely they can, and do it better than me, no doubt. Leaders don't fold like I do after every little fight. They don't hide out for days in the bottom of a bottle after a battle. Really, leaders keep standing tall for the rest of the team, don't they? They are the pillars, the rock. I am no fucking rock.

I swallow again, and my head starts to slump forward. I am done this time, truly I am. I'll pass the torch to Kingsley, or Arthur. They'll do a better job. As the bottle slips from my hand and rolls to a clunk against a nearby crate, I hear the attic door open, and panic briefly before I recognize the footsteps.

I see the lit tip of her wand followed by her head as she comes up the stairs, and hold my hand up to block out the light. She takes a quick breath and mutters "_Nox_". Suddenly the room is bathed in a soft blue light and I know she's done that clever thing with the blue flame and the jar again. She steps lightly toward me, looks down at me for minute, and then cops a squat in front of me. We stare at each other, and then my tears start to fall. Before I know it, there are deep, ragged sobs ripping my chest apart, and I am rubbing at my face with my grubby hand, spreading mud and blood and who knows what else around with my tears.

She let's me go, let's me cry it out for a minute or two. And as my sobs start to subside, she starts to talk. I really have no idea what she is saying, something about a book she's read and something she's found interesting. But I am not trying to focus on the words, anyway. It's just the sound of her voice, the lilt and pitch and timber of it. It's a bit of normality, a bit of history, it's her. And finally the tears stop and she has her arms around me and is pulling me off the ground and into the stairwell and down to the bathroom.

She strips me, puts me into the tub and runs a bath. She fills and empties the water several times, and wipes my whole body with a cloth and some clean smelling soap. And all the while she talks. I continue listening to the sound of her as she pulls me up and gently towels me dry. Then she helps me dress in pajamas she must've brought in here before she came up to get me, and helps me to my room.

She puts me into my bed, the covers already pulled back, then she tucks me in and sits next to me, back against the headboard and feet crossed. She rubs my hair back from my forehead, petting me, caressing me, lulling me to sleep. And amazingly, she is still talking.

As my eyes finally drift closed in sleep, the weight shifts on the bed and my bedside lamp goes out.

I hear, "Goodnight, Harry, luv," just before the light from the hallway is blocked out from her closing the door.

"Goodnight, Hermione, my love," I mutter, as I pull the pillow she had been leaning against to my face and inhale her scent.

Tomorrow, I know, I will wake up and lead again.


End file.
